


Spray Paint and Freedom Murals

by antifasamwilson



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Freebird - Freeform, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Samsteve - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 10:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16931871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antifasamwilson/pseuds/antifasamwilson
Summary: "I thought maybe…maybe if you paint enough peace, then maybe you’ll find some."(originally posted to my tumblr sideblog irasteverogers, edited a bit because i cant help myself)





	Spray Paint and Freedom Murals

Steve and Sam are in hiding in Belfast. Everyone else split ways, Wanda recovering from her torture on the Raft in a farmhouse Fury had. But Steve couldn’t find peace, recovery, or relaxation in the beautiful little house, and neither could Sam. The walls were too thin to hide their screams at night, the sun too bright to mask their dark circles and hollowed eyes. They were worrying everyone else, they knew it. So they borrowed a jet and left. Steve asked Sam where to, and Sam just said “anywhere we’re needed.” And took a nap, leaving Steve to decide.

Steve didn’t know why he picked Belfast, maybe it’s because this was where his Mammy was born, maybe it’s because he hasn’t heard gaeilge spoken aloud in 80 years and he misses it. Maybe it’s because he knows the Irish, even in British occupied lands, are the last people to snitch on him, on anyone who needs to hide from the government.

Steve already knew about the RA, they’ve been around since before he was born. He was born barely two years after the 1916 Easter Uprising, after all. And he remembers the aftermath of Irish freedom fighting in the states. His mother teaching him gaeilge late at night, being proud of him for learning so fast, but then making him promise never to speak it in public. To make sure he talks like an American, walks like an American, goes by his American name (his real name was Seán, just as her real name was Sorcha, not Sarah).

But it didn’t matter. They still got mistreated by angry Americans and English in New York. And many of Steve’s worst scars came from fights he started after being called a “Dirty Mick”.

Steve wanted to be involved in the RA. He wanted to be involved back then, but he had been too small, too poor, too weak

Not anymore. And now, thanks to the accords, he has nothing to lose by supporting them openly. His reputation was already in shambles.

Steve doesn’t want to be high profile rallies or protests or do anything that would draw even more police or ire towards the protestors. He doesn’t want it to be about him, which it would if he showed up. And he knows how quick violence could break out, and that’s the last thing he wants.

But he can draw.

Sam gave him the idea, when he went after groceries for their safe house in Ardoyne. Sam had spotted a beautiful mural about Solidarity with Palestine. 

It depicted a pair of joined arms stretching out from barred windows, one sleeve bearing the Irish tricolor, the other the colors of Palestine. 

He took a picture on his burner and showed it to Steve, who was still broken and sad from Bucky, from the events leading up to their exile, from that final fight in Siberia.

“It’s beautiful” Steve breathed “I want to see it tonight. Show me?”

“They’re all over the city.” Sam says thoughtfully “Some are legal."

"I doubt many of them are." Steve said jokingly. Sam was frowning, so Steve asked "What's wrong, Sammy?"

“...You've looked so lost. Ever since Barnes went back under.” Sam told him as he deposits a large plastic sack full of cans in his lap “And I thought maybe…maybe if you paint enough peace, then maybe you’ll find some.”

Steve doesn’t look at him. He’s too busy looking through all the different spray paint colors and imagining what he wants to draw.

“It was just an idea.” Sam says over his shoulder, going into his room and shutting the door. He stayed there, reading a book, for the rest of the day, giving Steve space.

The next morning, Steve was still in bed when Sam got up.

It was weird. Since when did Steve Rogers sleep in? Especially after all that had happened, Sam was used to being awoken by Steve screaming for Bucky, or Peggy. Sam peeked in to check on him, and saw the super soldier sleeping peacefully in bed, tucked almost completely under the covers, the spray paint cans sitting on the ground at the foot of the bed. He must’ve slept through the night, no nightmares.

Sam was so rattled by it (and a little jealous if he was honest with himself) that he went for a run on the same route he took for groceries.

Two miles in, Sam realized that there were many more people on this road than yesterday. Keeping his face hidden, Sam fought through the crowds to see what was going on.

And couldn’t stop from grinning at what he saw.

Steve was awake when he got back, and Sam greeted him by quoting the inscription “Dedicated to the memory of those local Republican activists who devoted their lives to the cause of Irish freedom, signed SR.”

“Oh, I heard about that on the news.” Steve said airily as he cooked some eggs “You’re talmbout that mural, right? Cool, isn’t it? All those faces of hunger strikers, the lilies for the Easter Uprising. My Ma liked lilies. Must’ve been hard to get all that detail in such a short time with spray paint.”

Sam purses his lips to stop from laughing and ruining the joke “How do you know the guy used spray paint?”

“How do you know it was a guy?” Steve countered sassily

“I guess I don’t know.” Sam snorted, before walking up to Steve, hip checking him “Move aside, Rogers. You’re hopeless at this.”

Steve gave him the spatula, and Sam grinned, tapping the other man's palm lightly as he took it

“You still have some paint on your hands, Stevie.”


End file.
